Chapter Four
“The weather guy is standing there in the wind looking like he’s going to blow away. What’s that supposed to tell us other than he’s not very bright. Either that or someone volunteered him for wind-testing duty, and he couldn’t say no,” Buffy muttered at the living room TV from where she was slouched on the sofa. “And what’s with doing the report by that tower? It looks like it might fall on top of him.”
The wind was definitely picking up speed – more than when Spike had pointed it out earlier. The tree branch was becoming more insistent, and if Buffy was as dumb as the weather guy, she’d be out there trying to tie off the limb, so it wouldn’t break the glass.
Spike would probably stop her before she got that far though.
Spike.
Spike was in her house. In her kitchen. And he was cooking Spam. He’d shooed her out of the room when she was hovering a little too close. He said she was just bloody in the way and would make him set himself on fire. On most days, Buffy didn’t think that would necessarily be a bad thing, but during the middle of an unprecedented-likely-mystical-and-perhaps-apocalyptic hurricane, she didn’t want him to be a pile of dust.
She blinked and shook her head. She was almost thinking about Spike as if he weren’t the mortal enemy who wanted to kill her – had tried to kill her multiple times. He hadn’t been very successful at it, but it was probably because she was a better Slayer than those Slayers he’d killed. Right?
Buffy bit her lip. He was being awfully quiet in the kitchen. What if he was plotting her demise and being very stealthy about it? He came across as a buffoon with that chip in his head, but really, Spike could be very stealthy when he wanted to be. He was a dangerous vampire sired into a line of very dangerous vampires, who had done terrible, awful things.
Sitting up abruptly, Buffy blinked the temporary stars out of her eyes and hurried to the kitchen. Her nose was met with the delicious scent of something frying. As she approached Spike, something spicy tickled her nose.
His face was a mask of concentration as he plucked what looked like planks of crispy Spam out of boiling oil in the pot on the stove. He plunked them gently on a paper towel-covered plate and began blotting the excess grease. He nodded at Buffy, moved the plate off the cool burner, and stepped to one side. “Mind getting the jalapenos out of the oven?”
Without thinking too much about it, Buffy said, “Sure.” She grabbed the oven mitt out of the drawer and pulled open the oven door. Roasted jalapenos were lined up on a foil-lined baking pan.
She removed them and set them on the stove as Spike reached over to turn off the flame on the oil. His fingers skimmed over her hand, and she shivered. He didn’t seem to notice and went back to his task of soaking up oil. Why did she wish he’d lingered?
She covered her own confusing feelings by asking, “What’re you making?”
“Tacos.”
“Spam tacos?” Her incredulity shone through with some sarcasm.
Spike huffed. “If you’re going to question my choices, why’d you want me to cook?”
Was she questioning his choices? Her stomach growled. “Not questioning. Just curious.”
“How about you judge the food after you taste it?”
“Okay. I can do that.” She felt a little out of place. “What should I do now?”
“Toss the corn tortillas in the oven and get the pico out of the fridge.”
Buffy’s eyes rounded. “You made pico? To go with the jalapenos?”
Spike shrugged a shoulder. “I like spicy.”
Buffy chose not to question him about whether he was eating, too, because apparently, he was. She was about to have dinner with the enemy. But that didn’t sound quite right. Was he the enemy? He’d been chipped for so long that he didn’t seem like the enemy. “Okay.” She hurried around the kitchen, following his instructions and getting out plates and forks. She set up the pico and jalapenos on a plate and put the tortillas in the oven.
Spike settled the Spam next to the toppings on the kitchen island and went to the fridge. He pulled out a blood bag that Buffy didn’t realize was there and proceeded to pour it into a mug and microwave it. She opened her mouth, intending to ask why he’d thought to bring blood, but her stomach protested its emptiness again, and she sat on one of the stools.
Bringing the tortillas and his blood, Spike perched next to her on the neighboring stool. He passed her a warm tortilla.
“Thanks,” she said and began to load up the soft corn, adding the Spam and pico and sprinkling a little salt over the whole pile.
Spike paused in his own taco prep to slide a roasted jalapeno onto her taco. He lifted an eyebrow at her. “Try it. The roasting and seed removal takes away some of the heat.”
Buffy hesitated but then crossed her arms. “You first.”
Spike smirked, carefully picked up his taco, and took a huge bite that included two slices of jalapenos. He closed his eyes as if in ecstasy as he chewed. “Mmm.”
When he didn’t burst into dust or rush to down the blood in his mug, Buffy decided she better buck up and show him who the Slayer was. She gathered up her food in both hands and took a big bite before he could challenge her. The Spam and pico were delightfully crispy in contrast to the soft, warm tortilla, and to her surprise, the jalapeno wasn’t overly spicy and added the hint of a kick as she swallowed.
Spike watched her with expectation akin to hope on his face, and she found that she couldn’t give him a negative review even if the first bite hadn’t been delicious.
“Oh,” she managed, her fingers going to her lips. “That was – ”
“Terrible? Not up to your palate’s expectations?”
She shook her head. “No, no. Actually.” He was studying her face hard. “It’s delicious. How?” She regarded the simple taco on her plate. “It’s Spam.”
“Told you to trust me.”
“Hmph. Just because I let you cook for me does not mean I trust you.”
Spike rolled his eyes. “To each her own.” He returned to his food and blood.
Buffy polished off her first taco and loaded up a second. This time, she added her own pepper. Spike didn’t even move a muscle though she expected him to make fun of her. Instead, he ate his own seconds with zeal, and she followed his lead.
Buffy finished her second taco first and discovered that there was only enough Spam for a fifth and final taco. To her own surprise, she tore the tortilla in half and gave Spike a piece.
“Sharing now, eh?” Spike asked.
Buffy split the remaining meat with Spike. “Of course. I know how to share. Learned how when my sister was born.”
“Having a sibling makes a difference.” Spike didn’t know Dawn wasn’t real. He didn’t know she was a key created in human form to hide her from Glory.
“Did you have one? A sibling?”
“Of course. But back then, there were no antibiotics or modern medicine. I was the only one who survived to adulthood.” There was a hint of sadness in his tone, which surprised Buffy. Did vampires miss their human lives or their human families? Angel had never mentioned missing his.
“Oh, wow. Your parents must have been so sad.”
“It was expected in a lot of ways, but knowing it didn’t make it easy. Especially for my mum.”
“She must have treasured you,” Buffy commented.
Spike nodded. “She did. Overdid it a bit, but. . . it was nice.”
“Which part?”
Emotion flickered over Spike’s face – emotion that Buffy couldn’t interpret. “She doted a little too much. Gave me unwarranted accolades.”
“That’s what moms are supposed to do. Love their kids unconditionally.”
Spike smiled at her. “As much as that’s a possibility. She was. . . home.”
Buffy got that. “My mom’s made mistakes, but she’ll always be home to me.”
“Your mum is a fine lady.”
“You like her.”
“I do.”
“Why?”
“She doesn’t put on airs. She takes me as I am. Unlike some people – ”
“Hey!” Buffy protested. “I take you as you are: a nuisance.”
Spike shoved back from his food. “If that’s how you treat a bloke who’s fed you and who’s keeping you company during a bloody hurricane when everyone else skipped town – ”
Buffy’s heart pounded in her chest as annoyance flashed through her. “It’s a mandatory evacuation. That’s why everyone’s gone. Unlike you. . . the only idiot who decided to stay.”
“Your Watcher’s still here.”
Worry flitted through her mind. “Because he’s trying to help me figure out what’s going on with the storm.”
“The storm driven by magic coming from the hellmouth.”
“How did you – ?”
Spike tapped one ear. “Enhanced vampire hearing. Heard the whole phone conversation.” He hesitated. “You have to let me help you.” There was that whole vulnerability in his eyes again. Buffy didn’t know what to make of it.
“Why would I let you help me?”
“Why wouldn’t you?”
“Because you’re. . .” Buffy didn’t have the heart to tell him he wasn’t very evil anymore. She’d already called him two names in rapid succession.
Spike growled in frustration. “Because I’m useless with this chip in my head! I see the way you look at me with,” he gestured at her with one hand, “those. . . eyes. Full of. . . pity.” He clenched his jaw. “Fine. I’ll be downstairs. In the safest part of the house if you need me.”
Buffy was left with a kitchen full of dirty dishes, pots and pans and a bucket full of confusion about what had just happened between her and Spike. The wind howled in response, and the tree branch rat-a-tat-tat’ed on the glass.
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Chapter End Notes:
Though I've been through many hurricanes...the most memorable being Katrina, Rita, Ike, and Harvey, Ike was the one that scared me the most because I had to stay in town due to working at the hospital. I was in a second floor apartment with lots of big windows, and oh, wowsers, the winds were loud and rattled the windows like no one's business. I literally thought they'd implode. So much of what's to come is based on that. And also the other hurricanes...little observations. That's probably all I'll say about that. The tidbits in earlier chapters are based on research about hurricanes in California. Promise I didn't make that stuff up. Anyway, carry on...more tomorrow! :o)